


A Las Vegas Morning After

by Mandibles



Series: In which I try to cope with the Colton Thing [16]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Fluff, Future Fic, Kissing, Las Vegas, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Lydia and Stiles' wedding, Jackson wakes up married himself. To <i>Derek</i>. But, you know, it's actually not that bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Las Vegas Morning After

Unlike most folks after a night in Vegas, Jackson wakes warm and comfortable, curled in a tangle of sheets and comforter on a ridiculously soft hotel bed. No migraine, no sensitivity to light, no hangover—all in all, a fantastic start to a Vegas morning after. He can chalk this one up to why the Bite really is some kind of a gift. There’s just this beautiful, blissful kind of lethargy that leaves him heavy-limbed and content.

The only complaint he can really think is last night, that it was Stilinski who took Lydia’s hand in holy matrimony. Not that Jackson’s bitter about it at all; he’s honestly not. The two of them have been dating for years, since Junior year of college, actually, and at some point, they reached a level of gross that made Scott of people cringe. So, when Stilinski finally broke the question to her last year, no one was surprised when she said yes.

What’s really surprising, though, is that Lydia agreed to this, some quick Vegas wedding with a small cluster of friends and enough booze for even the werewolves to feel it. Sure, it was nice and all, but back when he and Lydia were together, she’d sometimes talk about her dream wedding. Something enormous and grand in some giant, old chapel somewhere with everything white and sparkling and beautiful. Instead, she got a tacky red and purple velvet arch and an Elvis impersonator.

That’s why Jackson spent most of the service at the bar, knocking back the most expensive whiskey the place had to offer. The thought the he could have given her more, better—the idea thought that she had to settle for less—made Jackson bristle with petty fury and jealousy and self-loathing. He’d drunk enough to kill three men and make the bartender pale by the end of the night, but it’s what he needed for his head to swim with intoxication and bitter rage.

But, none of that matters now, because Lydia Martin is now Lydia Stilinski. Well, unofficially. Jackson’s sure she’d never take any man’s name. And, besides, he feels so fucking wonderful here, arms clutched around a soft pillow with the stale smell of sex and cologne and comfort in his nose and the crackle of unopened condom packets in his ears and—huh. Well. Looks like he was busy last night.

Shit.

Jackson opens his bleary eyes with a grimace, because, ugh, what? Did he, like, find some prostitute or something while he was drunk off his ass. And, isn’t that just classy as fuck. Almost as classy as the suite he wakes up to and the red flower petals—rose? Really?—that cling to his skin. Groaning low, he musters just enough strength to roll onto his back and cart fingers through his mussed hair, his eyes catching the bundle of blankets beside him for a split second. Here’s to hoping she didn’t steal his wallet, because fuck him if that happened—

He should get up.

He clambers off the sweet, sweet cushion of mattress with a pained sigh and lopes over to the bathroom, pausing briefly to peel away a sheet of paper stuck to his foot. He bypasses the mirror entirely, spaces out in the shoulder, and doesn’t bother drying off before he pulls clothes on. He’s takes the time to towel his hair when there’s a knock at the door. He opens it and McCall grins back at him, too giddy for his own good.

“Heyyy,” McCall drawls as he rubs that ridiculous bot of scruff on his chin. He leans int the doorway, head resting on the frame. “Sup! We were wondering when the lovebirds were coming down for breakfast!”

Jackson scowls and scrubs at his face. “How the hell should I know? Don’t you have them on speed dial or something?”

“Ah, no, I mean the two of you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

McCall’s eyebrows shoot up, equal parts amused and embarrassed. “You know, you and Derek.”

Silence.

Huh?

 _Huh_?

 _Huh_ , _what_?

Eyes shutting in aggravation, Jackson shakes his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You and Derek,” McCall says slowly, simply. “You know, the whole being hitched thing?” He shrugs like it’s something that isn’t that big of a deal, but it is actually. Freaky ass accusations like that are a big fucking deal. “Did you really forgot all about it?”

A sneer twists Jackson’s face. “You’re not funny.”

McCall smiles sheepishly. “It’s, uh, not a joke?” Jackson flinches when Scott takes his left hand and brings it to his face.

A heavy silver band sits snugly on his finger. His _ring_ finger. And, none of this makes fucking _sense_.

Horror, like freezing ice water, sinks in Jackson’s stomach and his brain fizzles blank. It takes McCall a second to realize Jackson’s hyperventilating, but once he does, Jackson’s already slammed the door in his face. Prickling with confusion, anger, and nerves, he finds himself turning to the crumpled piece of paper he’d tossed away earlier. He doesn’t know why—really doesn’t—but, something about it makes it the most terrifying thing in the room. And, when he picks it up, smooths out the wrinkles, his fear is justified.

Because, this is a marriage certificate.

“What the fuck is this?” he screeches, really _screeches_.

And a growl answers him.

Oh my—Oh my god.

It takes Jackson everything he has not to fling himself at the door, instead going completely stock-still, sucking in a tight breath. The bundle of blankets from before shift and part to skin and flexing muscle and Jackson is almost knocked back by the smell of Alpha. How the hell didn’t he notice that before?

Derek snorts awake, batting the blanket off his shoulder before scrubbing at his face with a grumble. He inhales deeply, loudly, and his eyes—red as Jackson’s imminent death—flick open.

“Jackson?” Derek’s voice is gruff, thick with sleep, as he pushes off of the bed. The blankets and sheets and fucking rose petals drag down his bare back and—shit, he’s naked. And Jackson was naked. They were naked together in the same bed and everything in the world has gone to absolute shit and Jackson doesn’t want to do _die_ , not like this—

“Jackson.”

Jackson manages some wet, choked noises, then blurts, “W-What are you doing in my bed?” Apparently, he has a death wish.

Derek just stares, though. Stares, then laughs of all things, his lips quirking with a smile. “Since I paid for the room,” he says as he drops onto his back, “I’d say it’s mine.”

“Y- _You_?” Jackson sputters. He waves the certificate clutched in his left hand. “You did this? You’re behind whatever the fuck this is? You—” The sentence comes to a halt when Derek flashes the ring on his own finger, silver and heavy and snug. Jackson can only stare at it dumbly, his arms dropping at his sides. “This isn’t my fault,” he says, because something tells him it is.

Sure enough, Derek rolls his eyes, snorts. “ _You_ asked _me_ , you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. The whole fucking night.”

“ _No_.”

“Yes.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Jackson hisses, throwing the certificate down. “Then, if I’m the one who asked you to—to _marry_ me—which I fucking didn’t, what the fuck—why did you actually do it?

That gives Derek pause. But it doesn’t, as Jackson had hoped, completely disarm him. “To shut you up,” he concludes after a moment, and though his lips twist into a leer, his voice is oddly soft, even affectionate, and _no_. No no no.

Feeling, admittedly, a little faint, Jackson gropes behind him and collapses onto the armchair he finds. He buries his face in his hands with a pained, “Ugh, _god_.” So much for the idyllic Vegas morning he woke up to. He kind of wants to burrow his way underground and just lay there until dirt fills his lungs and suffocates him. “Did we really have sex?” he bemoans, finally looking up, terrified of the answer.

Which is a quick, simple: “Yes.”

Jackson groans and hides his face once more. “Dammit. God _dammit_. And, you—”

“Fucked you. Yeah. A few times.” He sounds closer. When Jackson opens his eyes, Derek’s there in front of him just casually pulling a pair of boxers up his hips. And, fuck, if it doesn’t take Jackson everything he has not to stare at his junk. He withers under Derek’s bemused smile. “You were good, if that’s what you’re worried about. Well, as good as a drooling drunk can be.” He scratches his throat, yawns. “You give good head,” he adds offhandedly.

Jackson gapes and a hot, angry flush crawls up his neck, his face. “I want a divorce,” he spits, furious.

And, Derek just shrugs. “We can discuss it over breakfast.”

“No, we discuss it now so we can be done by break—” The sudden push of his Alpha’s smell, his dominance, chokes him and Derek’s so fucking close now, leaning into his space. So close that when Jackson gasps in alarm, their noses bump and his lip catches on Derek’s. “Fff—”

Derek jerks Jackson’s chin up and quickly takes Jackson’s top lip between his own. He sucks, nibbles, and when he licks at the seam of Jackson’s mouth, Jackson lets him in despite himself, heart hammering in his chest. It’s both terrifying and familiar, the way Derek works him, like they’ve done this every day for forever instead of just over the course of a few hours. Then, Derek clutches Jackson’s face hard, pushing the needy groan Jackson tried so hard to hide out into the open.

“Derek, you _fucker_ ,” Jackson sighs once they part for air. “Seducing me is not going to change my mind!”

A laugh. “About breakfast or about sucking my cock?” Derek asks, nipping at his jaw and sliding a hand under Jackson’s shirt. And, really, Jackson’s starting to think he liked him more when he was a grumpy, shitty Alpha. That doesn’t stop him, though, from tilting his head and offering the tender expanse of his throat to be explored by Derek’s lips, tongue, and teeth. “Come back to bed with me, then we’ll talk.”

“I’m not going to—I want a fucking _divorce_. What part of that don’t you get?” Jackson growls even so.

Derek only laughs again, thick and warm, with his nose buried in the crook of Jackson’s neck. He murmurs, low, “You know, marrying you wasn’t exactly a chore, Jackson.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means . . .” Derek pauses, drawing away with a thoughtful look. After a moment, he meets Jackson’s glare. “I wanted to. Marry you.”

. . . Oh.

“And if it ever came down to it,” Derek continues, “I think I’d do it again.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

Derek searches Jackson’s face. “That’s the question now, isn’t it?”

Silence.

“Are you . . .” Jackson’s hands curl into tight fists on his lap; Derek doesn’t miss the movement. “Are you saying—”

“I might be.”

“Oh.” Jackson swallows thickly, his eyes hard on Derek. He isn’t sure what to make of what he finds there. “So. This is—This is serious. Fuck, you’re really being serious about this, aren’t you?”

Derek shrugs, scratches the back of his neck, and Jackson never thought he’d see the day when he’d find his Alpha _embarrassed_. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s probably better off that way. There’s no reason for him to talk when Jackson’s pushing to his feet and dragging him into a biting kiss with his heart in his throat. It’s ferocious enough to make Derek stagger back a few steps before he returns it just as fiercely. Their teeth clack and Jackson’s sure someone bit his tongue and there’s nothing more perfect than this, the two of them together like this.

Derek reaches back to grab Jackson’s ass, hand hot as a brand, and Jackson shoves his hand into Derek’s boxers to grab his cock.

“You still thinking about divorce?” Derek rumbles, his fingers digging in sharply.

And, Jackson finds himself smiling, a real, honest-to-god smile. “We’ll talk.” He licks a wet trail up Derek’s neck. “After breakfast.”

Derek falls back onto the bed easily, boxers around his knees, and he laughs as Jackson descends for his meal.


End file.
